Star Trekkin' across the universe....

On the Starship Enterprise under Captain Kirk, Star Trekkin' across the universe,
 Only going forward 'cause we can't find reverse.

 A 1987 chart topper by a spoof band called the Firm, making parody of the characters and catchphrases from Star Trek. It went straight to Number one, where it managed to klingon for 2 weeks

Which leads me boldly going forward to this weeks medical matters in my small universe. Last week I got to experience a procedure so alien to me, that it could come straight from Vulcan itself. Thanks to the malicious workings of my new organ and it's malign impact on perfectly innocuous drugs, I was about to experience a replacement anti biotic for the Co-trimoxazole, which I must say sounds like a 15^th Century Mayan leader batting against ancient alien invaders.

The new anti biotic is called a Pentamidine Nebuliser, which I was convinced was a galaxy somewhere beyond the solar system, just turn left at Sirius Major and continue for 32 million light years until you pass a BP garage, pick up a manual, then turn right just before the collapsing star.

But no, a nebuliser is basically a face mask which you breathe into, thus absorbing the drug into your lungs. But wait there's more, first you have to have another drug called Ventolin (yes the Asthma one) to open up the lungs to make absorption of the Pentamidine easier. This is delivered by another nebuliser, “set for stun Cap'n”

Off I trotted to the nebulising ward which contained a strange collection of beings confined to beds and chairs all inhaling through facemasks (“It's life Jim, but not as we know it”), rather like a scene from Alien 3, but minus Sigourney Weaver and populated instead by Hildas, Muriels and a Dennis.

Ushered to my allotted captains' chair, I settled in for a quick nebulise.

I looked over to my left and observed the strange elderly creature positioned next to me (There's Klingons on the starboard bow, starboard bow, starboard bow) sucking noisily through her mask, and whiffs of inhalant escaping through the breathing holes. Yikes, she looked more like the Alien Queen, steaming and gurgling as she inhaled her ventolin, or was it really some strange gas to aid her egg laying?

I turned away from this awful scene and glanced to my port side, and was aghast at the slumped gentleman in the chair adjacent, was he asleep as he dribbled from his nebuliser? (It's worse than that, he's dead, Jim, dead, Jim, dead).

                                            

Relieved to see him snort and cough, I commenced my treatment by joining in the mass collective nebulising, and struggled valiantly with the gas and steam, breathing in and then exhaling through the same mask. How was I able to breathe with this contraption on? (Ye cannae change the laws of physics, Jim)   

After what seemed to be many light years, I was teleported to a separate room, where stage 2 of the launch procedure would occur with yet another nebuliser, this one looking like a white phaser gun (We come in peace, shoot to kill, shoot to kill, shoot to kill;
we come in peace, shoot to kill)

                                                                                                 

The nurse then explained that since the gas was toxic to some female cells and could kill the ovaries, I was to be left alone in this sealed chamber as I absorbed these so called cytotoxins. Thankfully I don't have any ovaries, unless during the transplant surgery a couple slipped inside by mistake. You hear such stories of careless doctors..........

As I absorbed the gas I became conscious of how I was morphing into the alien collective outside, sharing a group mind meld. Allowing for some quite strenuous hyperventilating, I sucked in deeper and deeper (Och, if I give it any more she'll blow, Cap'n!)

After a while of spluttering and gargling on gas, I finished and left the air locked chamber.

“ Everything Ok?” asked the nurse, ovaries presumably intact, protected by the enormous reception console.

“ Yes, Affirmative”

“See you next month then and have a good journey home”

“Yes, thank you. May you live long and prosper.”

 And with that I swish-swished out the door.

Enjoy the video......

 

Hanging on the Telephone

Belted Blondie blissfully back in 1978, bemoaning her unrequited affection for some poor chap, who no doubt in 2011 would have reported her to the NYPD as a stalker and crank caller. How times have changed, back then a bedraggled Ms Harry could be observed slipping out from her apartment door and crossing the hall to pester the object of her affection. Now this to my mind is a situation fraught with danger, for she could be spotted loitering in the said hall and questioned by the janitor or worse the boys' mother could suddenly return (did she go to work or just to the store? (Who knows, Who cares?). Now there is nothing more likely to dampen a young Lothario's ardour than his mother interrupting with bags of shopping. And on that note I apologise to Mandy P for the infamous Tesco Weston Favell Interruption back in 1985.......

Telephone's do feature in this bloglet today, for they where the means of conveying the news from my renal physician earlier this week.
Since last entry  I have been somewhat perturbed by the internal workings of my new organs, with the kidney particularly showing signs of rebellion. So I waited patiently for the great minds to decide whether this was my kidneys' attempt at emulating the Libyan rebels,and turning into a full scale rejection, not of a mad Bedouin global pariah, but of sweet inoffensive little old me.  As the days marched on, and Monday stretched into Tuesday, and then bloomed into Wednesday, I remained, like a medieval bishop, unenlightened.

 Thursday dawned brightly, and still the long interminable wait continued, as the labours of the week gave birth to Friday. Anxiety reigned supreme and my mind, already prone to hallucinative scenarios, had entered into such a delusional state so acute, I could have quite happily taken over the running of Fiji or Syria.

But the that afternoon, after a pleasant repast of chip butties with Pringles (how very English!), and whilst sipping on some Yorkshire tea, I was interrupted by the melodic tones of my Iphone, and  glancing at the number, was worried to see the Hospital number.....Arrggghhh!

Timorously and with dread, I gingerly answered the call.........

and was most relieved to hear the latest opinion from the font of medical knowledge. Instead of a full scale insurgency, my new organ was having a reaction to the cocktail of drugs that I daily consume.
My previous worries, of a rejection episode, were instantly replaced by a new set of concerns. I told you I had a active and wandering cerebrum, and indeed off it went on it's new journey of exploration...
What if the drugs I was becoming reactionary to were the immuno-suppressants? Then I would be back in anti rejection territory, and having to adjust my lifestyle to accommodate a new regimen of different drugs, which are time specific and quite inconvenient for most working people (oh yes, did I neglect to mention that I have restarted back at work, albeit in a part time capacity, until stamina builds up, but that's another blog entry?).


My malicious-minded ramblings were quickly extinguished by the doctors next statement, no, he reassured me, I was not reacting to the immuno-suppressants, but a combination of a particular anti-biotic and  anti-ulcer drug. Desist from taking these, and we are confident that the inflammation will disappear!
Hooray, hooray, its a holi holi day (Go away Boney M!). After the worries of the last week,that is indeed  quite a relief, so much so that I am almost in (cue Blondie again) Rapture, the Tide is indeed High, and I am pleased to report that my new organs are functioning properly like a Part of Glass (yikes what a pun most terrible)

Adieu and Allez les Bleus, or go the All Blacks, 

depending on your whereabouts

in the blogosphere

for the RWC final tonight at Eden Park!

Robert De Niro's Waiting

Not sure what he is waiting for, Bananarama never really told us way back in 1984, but I bet he's not waiting for the results from a kidney biopsy. I on the other hand am nervously waiting after some unsettling news on Friday.
The biopsy procedure itself was quite painless, albeit quite uncomfortable. I don't know what all the fuss was about. It was a routine protocol biopsy, where they weren't looking for anything specific, but often underlying issues can be detected rather than blood tests. Anyhow, 2 slivers were taken from my new organ and sent off for analysis. They are not reviewed by the renal team, but a radiologist doctor, who found evidence of inflammation on the kidney. In her experience this type of inflammation tends to be the first signs of organ rejection.

She called the renal team to report on her analysis. The senior consultant was not sufficiently worried to agree with the biopsy analyst, as the blood tests taken on Thursday and Friday showed a really healthy kidney that was performing it's task really well. The kidney processes the toxins in the blood, and the amount of toxicity or creatinine is measured. For a normal non transplant patient the range is between 90-115 of the Globular Filtration Rate. this indicates the level of creatinine clearance in the blood. As the kidney gets worse the GFR rate increases quite steeply. My GFR clearance was 86 on Thursday, which is excellent, hence the consultants lack of concern. He suggested it may be due to a bruise due to exercise (!) He doesn't know me very well then.

 So they are going to recheck my creatinine clearance on Monday, and will review my treatment later that day. If the organ appears to be performing poorly, i.e with a GFR of over 110=120, then another stay in hospital is required whilst they infuse me with some strong steroids that neutralise the rejection process. However if it remains below the 110 mark, then it will be a bruise and can heal itself.
So I await the results on Monday, slightly nervous, but reassured that even if does turn out to be bad news they can still prevent a total rejection of the organ, and avoid a return to dialysis.

There has been quite a lot of media coverage about NZ rugby star Jonah Lomu and his failed transplant organ, which is sad news for him and a complete reversal in his fortune, now he is back on dialysis 4 times a week. It is not my position to speculate on the cause of his kidney failure, his transplant was performed in 2004, so he has had a healthy organ for 8 years, and organs can be expected to last for 10-20 years, so it is sad that his has failed so early in its' new life. I wish him well and a suitable donor found for him soon.

Once kidney failure strikes, there is a lot of waiting; for treatment, transplants, appointments, and test results. Ah well that's life!     

Money for Nothing, and your chicks for free....

Welcome back to my entry into the blogosphere chums, for today I am inspired by that odious but necessary evil: money

Top of the pops in good old 1985, Dire Straits were very keen to highlight the ridiculous nature of the rock industry, and the financial rewards that are a part of it. The video focused on two blue collar workers moving microwaves and colour TV's, whilst in the background the band rocked on. Which was ironic given the vast wealth of the Knopfler Klan and their guest vocalist.

His Holiness the Dalai Sting, having taken time off from saving another endangered insect, found himself with some spare time, after the split up of The Police. Still a force to be reckoned with       (The Police Force?) he agreed to help out a band in dire straits chart-wise and the rest is history.

Anyway enough of has-beens from the past.....

Whilst recovering back in August in my luxury hospital room, I was visited by a social worker. Worried that I would raise significant concerns for her pyschiatrically, I did my best to appear calm and serene. What would Carson the butler do from Downton Abbey, I mused, if presented with the same situation. I am not sure being in a hospital in Auckland with a renal transplant would be in accordance with the historical accuracy of the Edwardian era drama. But would anybody really notice in these days of X factor wannabes and a celebrity obsessed media:

        

"Yes Carson, what is it?
My Lord, there is something amiss with the new appliance in the kitchen. The staff refuse to use it.
Why ever is that? Please explain.
A fracas developed after Mrs Patmore burned her fingers on her steamed suet pudding, although she says she followed the instructions in the microwave manual.
Mmmmm. Perhaps we should send her for an eye test in London.
Of course My Lord, I will ask the chauffeur to get the Hyundai 4x4 ready."

Therefore I tried to appear to be lucid, and rational, a wholly unnatural state of affairs for me. Gosh, this acting lark is quite easy, perhaps I should attend an audition? She made enquiries about my support mechanisms and any pets needing care for the duration of my stay, then turned the conversation to matters financial. And how are you going to manage fiscally? Well, I felt with a burst of corporate pride, this was my time to triumph and extol the virtues of my employer! As a staff benefit we all are covered in the event of a complete cessation of work due to illness or accident and would be receiving payments from the insurance company, I proudly announced..  

   

Thanks to my HR role at school, I have dealt with several claims from fellow colleagues, suffering from all sorts of ailments, with enough detail to fill a self help diagnostic compendium. After helping others in their hour of financial need, it was now my turn. Following the completion of a couple of detailed and invasive forms, the matter was taken out of my hands as everything else was dealt with by my GP or a hospital specialist. 

A physiotherapist was dispatched to my house to help me complete a functional job description, focusing on how physical my job is and how much of it is cerebral. As a result she assessed that my role is 10% physical (not heavy lifting, just walking between meetings and stretching for staff files), and the rest was deemed as cerebral. Cerebral? Wow, just wait till I tell my boss, what a clever clogs, time for a pay review? 

Accordingly it was acknowledged that even though my role allows me to sit down for long periods, the amount of accuracy required meant that I needed a clear head. Following such major surgery, it is quite normal to be emotional and quite unstable, so a time frame of three months away from work would fully aid my recovery.

Reassured by my case manager that it was a temporary incapacitation and it met the policy terms, I awaited written confirmation from the insurance company, which came a week later. Before you could say “thank you very very much Sovereign” the money was in my bank account, which was indeed a welcome deposit, having exhausted my sick leave immediately after the operation.

Since then I have received several payments from them , and as I intend to return to work next week, there should only be one more. It is amazing how money just trickles away, even though for most of the last three months I have hardly left the house! Perhaps I need to ease up on Trademe and Ebay!

It is a great relief to know that funds are incoming, and in return all I have had to do is rest and get better.

It really could be seen as “Money for Nothing”, yet I haven't seen any sign of the free chickens that Dire Straits promised. Perhaps Colonel Sanders got there first.......

Remember the Time

So the late Mr Jackson warbled in 1992, until the time when he was;

a) Administered the wrong drugs by his doctor, neglecting the Hippocratic Oath.

b) Self administered the same wrong drugs in an attempt to gain some much needed beauty sleep

c) Victim of a drug overdose administered by a bitter and neglected Bubbles.

d) Bumped off by his family and record company to enhance the sales of his back catalogue.

The courtroom drama alone is turning out to be quite a thriller.

But enough of the mad, bad, and deceased, and let us truly remember the time....

It came as a surprise to realise that it has been three months since the day of transformational wonderment unexpectedly visited our family, like a celestial intervention from Zeus on Mount Olympus, in the affairs of mankind.

Three months ago I had just had my transplant and was about to set sail on the good ship Recuperation. At the outset I was strictly limited in what tasks I could perform, foods I could eat, positions I could maintain, and of course the ever present spectre of wobblyitis due to low blood pressure. As I look back at the beginning of the voyage, when I was confined to a reclining chair, wrapped up in a blanket, and unable even to make myself a cup of comforting English Tea or lift anything weightier than a chocolate macaroon, even I am surprised at how well it has all gone. This genre of transplant can be fraught with problems, notably the fear of rejection and infection. None of this happened and I have made a textbook recovery. I am truly appreciative for the care and attention that has been showered on me by the renal team and the rest of my family, notably my partner for performing the role of dedicated driver and chef!

Food intake was limited to copious glassfuls of Complan Meal Replacement, Milkshakes, and oodles of cup a soup, the blander the better! Slowly we progressed to bread and biscuits and after a while I was able to tolerate salad.

Now, whilst still struggling with anything too rich or spicy (Bye bye curry! Bye bye casserole), I get through mountains of Marmite with cheese and crisp sandwiches, fish, pasta and my current favourite; Crawfords Bourbons from the UK food shop.

My blood pressure appears to have stabilised as my renal consultants tinker with the medications in order to find a balance that is acceptable to my metabolism, my gaping surgical wound has all but healed (most attractive, for a while it resembled the gaping chasm stretching across Mt Tarawera after the eruption of 1886.) but now looks like a slightly odd scar, if not a little large.

I am now fully mobile, but noticeably a little porkier around the waist. This I am reliably informed is due to steroids, and not, as my partner keeps insisting, due to crisps and Mars bars!

At the three month stage it is normal procedure for a biopsy to be taken from the transplanted kidney to ensure that there is nothing amiss that has failed to manifest itself in my regular blood tests.

I have of course looked this up on the interweb, and frankly scared myself witless. A large needle gets inserted twice to the new kidney through the front of my body and small samples are taken for analysis. With only local anaesthetic! Oh dear.... the perils of reading Wikipedia......I have this joy to look forward to next week.

Hopefully it wont be too uncomfortable, as they take Another Part of Me (cue Michael..) and that it

wont make me Scream and left feeling Bad.